


Those Wild Nights

by OccasionallyCreative



Series: Not Shy of a Spark [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 11:32:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3118589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OccasionallyCreative/pseuds/OccasionallyCreative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time they sleep together, he's a dead man walking, and she's the woman who has helped kill him. It takes three years for them to return to the place they truly want to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Wild Nights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lono](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lono/gifts).



> This story is sort of a sequel/spin-off to my fic "With Your Hands Between Your Thighs", but it's not really necessary for you to read that story before reading this one. The title comes from the Arctic Monkeys song, Mad Sounds, and the lyric _"Love buckles under the strain of those wild nights"_. (It was a theme, I thought I'd stick to it.)
> 
> I'm gifting this story to Lono because of a comment she made on "With Your Hands Between Your Thighs" which spurred me on to write this, so if you want anyone to blame... *blithely waves hand and wanders off, drinking whiskey from the bottle* contact her.
> 
> This fic is edited, but not beta'd so any mistakes are my own. Don't forget to leave kudos or comment (or leave both) if you so wish. You're free people, I can't order you around - all I can do is post smut and quietly hope kudos and comments will appear.

Sex with Tom is vanilla. Decidedly so.

Of course, he is proficient and she can reach orgasm with him, but, well, it’s not the sort of orgasm that she’ll remember in years to come. It’s just… what it is. It’s clinical, it’s a fact and sex shouldn’t be a fact. It should be a story she shares with friends as she gossips, blushing, tipsy from one too many glasses of wine. It should be a memory that will always sit there, at the back of her mind to bring a small smile to her face when she least expects it.

Tom is not at the back of her mind.

No.

The figure at the back of her mind looks like Tom, but it’s not him. It’s a better version. A better memory.

* * *

The memory starts with whiskey. Too much of it, if she recalls correctly. Whiskey and adrenaline. That’s never been a combination that leads to something calm and considered. If she could compare it to something, it’s an explosion. An explosion of feelings, long buried, mixed in with impulse, and topped off with desire.

She doesn’t remember much after the fourth (fifth) glass. The image drains of colour and shapes blur and flit about in front of her, like a film reel eroded by time. There’s one thing though. One thing that brings everything into focus, and all of a sudden makes everything too bright, too sharp.

She can feel the rough texture of her wallpaper hit against her back; can hear his laughter, can taste him, his lips, on her collarbone. She blushes as she yelps when he bites playfully down on her neck. (It bruises the very next day, a reminder of what they’ve shared.) She can feel him clumsily paw at her jeans—“buy some more accessible jeans, Molly, for the love of God,” she hears him say, and she has to bite back a laugh—and she sighs, shoving his hands away. She’s so impatient, for him, for herself, because God, they really shouldn’t be doing this, he’s a dead man and he’s leaving the country for two years in the morning and fuck, when is she ever going to get this opportunity again? It’s that thinking which has her cupping his face, tracing her fingers against the line of his jaw, drawing him towards her until they are nose to nose, inches from one another.

She’s the one who takes the plunge.

She tilts her head, and it takes a second before they possess one another, kissing, clawing, panting, skin flushed and heads spinning. Her shirt and bra are lying, wasted, on the floor before she can register it. She laughs, and he returns it, his warm breath on her neck. He has a fondness for her neck, her mind dimly stores that into her memory.

He drops to his knees, languidly peppers her stomach with kisses, blue eyes burning into her brown ones, his hands cupping at her arse. Fingers clench down over the cheap, nasty nylon of her knickers (her good ones are in the wash), tearing them away and leaving her exposed. He plays with her, and she’s writhing, writhing, hands flaying out, clutching at nothing, nails running down the wallpaper.

She almost shrieks when he begins to taste her, but he’s a dead man (dead, falling, fallen) and no-one can know of his existence, no-one, not even her, officially. So she bites down on her bottom lip, bottling her pleasure until she can taste blood. 

His eyes flick up to lock with hers, and it’s almost sadistic, the pleasure that burns, that swirls inside the pair of them. He spreads her legs and holds her up, one arm around her waist, the other around her thigh and he goes deeper.

Panting, heavy.

Pulse, racing.

Her fingers fly to his hair, and she’s too drunk, too high from what’s happening, to care if she’s pulling or not (he doesn’t seem to care either). The only thing that’s really running through her mind is that the bastard is still clothed, but even that's wiped from her mind when her body wracks with her climax and she has to clamp down on her mouth all over again.

* * *

She just about manages to get him to the sofa. Panting, grinning, her hands grab at his shirt, tugging it open. He lets it flutter down by his sides because, frankly, he’s more focused on the marvellous sensations that burst out against his skin as she draws her hands down his torso. He’s never seen someone so starved, and it’s almost amusing, seeing her like this, made so desperate by his fingers and his tongue. Her hands fall to his trousers, and those are undone too. He bites back a smart remark about holding back. As he’s just ruthlessly ate her out against the walls of her flat (she tasted glorious, and it made him curse the day he decided a body like his would never be in need of a body like hers) such words would be somewhat hypocritical. Her palms press flat out against his bare torso, and he feels his own smirk hastily drop when she shoves him back.

She straddles him, one arm winding around his shoulders. The other slips onto his hardened cock, easily sliding against the shaft. He bucks up underneath her and her mouth takes him again, kissing him until he has her waist in his hands, pulling her closer to him. He grunts, actually grunts like he’s some kind of animal devoid of all intelligence, which he is because bloody hell, she’s naked, he’s clothed and this whole situation is unquestionably hot and he can’t help but grunt and groan and let her name roll off his tongue. He’s malleable now, putty in her hands, so far from the cold, cerebral image he’s built up over the years that a small, stubborn part of his brain yells out against it. That soon shuts up when she finally spreads her thighs and sinks herself onto him and Jesus Christ, he can feel his eyes rolling back.

He wants to say something, but he shouldn't. The thread is taut enough. He’s got until the morning. Well, he hasn't, Mycroft did insist he was out of London by midnight but oh God, she’s moving her hips now and Mycroft can bloody well go hang. He lets words go to waste. Instead he pulls her closer, cupping at her chin and letting his hand roam against her thighs. She moans again, and he knows. She’s growing closer and closer and that’s a blessed relief because he doubts he’ll last any longer with the way they’re going. He touches her again, swiping at her clit, reaching up to drop kisses on her eyelids, at the sides of her temple, and her moans grow deeper. Her head tips back and she arches as he bucks, her body shuddering and he follows, holding her so tight he feels like he won’t be able to breathe when he eventually lets go.

In a grotty flat located somewhere in the pits of Paris, Sherlock snaps his eyes open. His mind swims with the memory, and casting his gaze down, he discovers the bed is now stained. He wishes he feels guilty.

* * *

She’s spent the last two years dreaming of their next time. At first, they were idle little ideas, soon swept away when she remembered that he was a dead man. Yet, like every thought she’s ever had about Sherlock Holmes, they grow from ruminations to fantasies. Fantasies which, she’s ashamed to admit, she’s used when Tom’s being _extra_ vanilla in bed.

Tom is gone today though. The straw that broke the camel’s back ends up being a somewhat trivial thing. She asks him to draw up a list for a potential best man (they’ve been engaged for four months so far; time to at least get _something_ organised), and he just stares at her, blankly, for a good minute. He gets up to make up a cup of tea. The kettle has just boiled when he says it.

“Do you think this is really a good idea?”

Maybe the reality of the commitment has hit him like a wave. Maybe he’s just seizing the opportunity. Whatever the reasoning, she gives him the answer they both wanted. One small nod and a collection of his things later, Molly finds herself a single woman once more. She cries, for a bit. Mostly out of anger, and somewhat out of frustration. It’s not heartbreak.

Heartbreak is waking up alone on the sofa, with a blanket wrapped over your shoulders the solitary reminder.

She soon drifts off to sleep when her tears are spent and her cheeks are dry. When she finds Sherlock in her dreams, on her sofa with his eyes rolled back and her hands on his chest as her head grows fuzzy and her body pulsates with the memory, she jerks awake with a swift gasp and, as she sits up and her eyes get used to the darkness, she blinks and somehow, she finds herself smiling.

* * *

A year. It takes them a bloody year to knock their heads together. It’s not for want of trying. He’s taken her out on a traditional movie-and-dinner date. An unmitigated disaster, they’ve both admitted that. She’s tried to surprise him at Baker Street (that particular adventure ended with Mrs Hudson volunteering to order in some takeaway, as Sherlock was going to be out of London for the weekend, didn’t he tell you dear?)

Now there are no distractions. No cases, no fumbling words, no failures. The timing is perfect, the mood is right, the atmosphere is calm.

She can’t think of a damn thing to do, or even say.

He sits on the bed before her, naked, and laughs.

“Stop thinking, Molly.” He holds out a hand, and she finally allows herself to breathe. She can’t lie; it’s a pleasing thing to find, the fact that her hand fits perfectly with his. She steps forward, and she thinks he’s going to be gentle, that he’s going to treat her like Tom treats her, like she’s some kind of breakable, fragile jewel.

She yelps when he tugs her downward and she falls back against the mattress, bouncing from the impact and straight into his arms. It’s clumsy, she’s babbling an apology and he only smiles. His fingers cup at the back of her neck, ghosting over the memory of their last encounter and her whole body warms as he, with a smile, leans back and lightly presses his mouth to hers. Their kiss deepens and she’s pushing, edging closer to him, pressing herself up against his chest, her knee curving up the length of his thigh. They roll until her back hits cool cotton and he raises himself up, kneeling in front of her.

He caresses her, but the touches aren't hesitant. They’re exploratory. He’s taking his time, he’s _learning_ her. His palm happens to skim the length of her inner thigh and oh dear. The moan and breathy call of “yes” reveals her before she has the chance to swallow it down. His smile grows wicked. His eyes twinkle. He taps nonchalantly at her knees, and she frowns, raising an eyebrow, but he only silently tilts his head. A playful, mocking question of "please" utters from his mouth and she couldn’t a flying fuck how arrogant he is; especially when he bends his head, kisses open-mouthed at both her thighs with gasp-inducing tenderness and then leans forward, giving her slit one teasing lick which makes her jolt and grip the sheet in anticipation.

He eyes the gesture, head turning, and it’s his turn to raise an eyebrow. His arms weave under her legs and his hands hold her hips. She can think of no word, no phrase to describe the euphoria, the _relief_ that unravels inside her as he licks, sucks and teases her other than the word that comes tumbling from her mouth, edged with a deep, deep moan:

“Finally.”

He chuckles and unwinds himself from her, sitting back on his knees, almost like an expectant puppy, waiting for praise. She props herself, elbows tucked behind her, and her gaze falls on his erect cock. She flicks a smile up at him. Shifting back, she scoops her hair around her shoulder, and the sight of him, _him_ , trying to squash the eager look in his eyes gives her the last piece of confidence she needs.

Giving the sweetest of smiles, she kisses at the hardened shaft, following the kisses with a deft swirl around the tip with her tongue. He groans, gutturally, and she grins. He did want praise, after all. Making sure to keep her eyes firmly locked onto his, she takes him into her mouth. His fingers softly run through the curled tresses of her hair, his groan growing into an ever more strangled series of pants, sounds which only spur her on more.

But she's wise, she's clever and she knows the pleasure can’t last forever. Not if they’re going to last the night at least. So she withdraws herself, shakes her head a little, letting the taste of him linger on her mouth, her hair flowing out over her back. She looks to him, but no words are said. He simply kisses her, hands holding her arms and together, they fall back onto the bed.

He looms over her, but, as he leans forward, grabbing the condom from the bedside table (his thoroughness in the preparation for this evening made her laugh when she first stepped inside Baker Street, and it almost makes her laugh now too) and taking it out, allowing her to gently slip it on, her hand moving up the shaft of his erection, his smile is perhaps the warmest she’s ever seen it. She winds her arms around his waist and it is too tempting, seeing him like this, eyes bright and sparking with life, to not briefly reach up and kiss lightly at his ear. He catches her eye as she lies back on the bed, her hair fanning out against the pillow. Shifting forward, he strokes at the loose strands over her features, tucking them behind her ear and her breath and hips hitch, feeling him as he dips his head.

His mouth grazes her neck. He’s moving, moving against her in a way that soon has her babbling the strangest things. She even says thank you. Heat grows in her cheeks, but he’s simply looking at her, his smile lopsided, playful and a reminder of why she adores him. He leans forward, pressing closer against her; he draws his nose against her cheek, letting her nuzzle and sigh into his touch. His pace slows to a careful, methodical, beautiful rhythm as their mouths brush together. He reaches out, fingertips dancing along her skin, and she laughs at the sensation. The laugh gives way to a gentle, quiet moan when she feels those same fingers, those slender digits slide in against hers, entwining, holding her tightly and she knows he’s hers.

He picks up the pace again, and every inch of her is on the precipice. She arches, his fingers letting go of hers, sliding down between their bodies. He can read her like a book as he touches her and she’s hugging him closer, nails drawing down his back, mouth warm on his already heated skin because technically, she doesn’t need him and all these sensations he provides, but by God, she _wants_ them. They move together, faster now, both gasping, both murmuring, both buried within one another.

“I love you.” The three words are whispered, and the world goes still. He holds himself atop of her, staring down at her, eyes widening as if he can’t quite believe they’ve done this.

A giggle rises and bubbles against her throat. His brow furrows, and he rolls off of her onto his side, naturally disposing of the condom and chucking it into the bin.

Despite his apparent confusion, he reaches out for her and her heart almost bursts and she wants to roll on top of him and take him all over again. She doesn’t. (She’ll save that particular impulse for later.) She slides across the bed sheets—they smell of him, of her, of _them_ —and wraps her arms around his waist. Her cheeks ache with the smile she gives him.

* * *

She falls asleep to the sound of his breath, and wakes to the smell of coffee. An aria, of all things, echoes from the kitchen, bleeding through the door. The noise she makes is small, at the back of the throat, light. Sleepily, she climbs out of the dangerously comfortable bed and zips open her overnight bag. Snatching out a fresh pair of knickers and stepping into them, she scoops up his abandoned shirt, covering herself with it. The sleeves are far too long to be practical (even if she rolls them up), and she ties the shirt at her waist to stop it skimming past her thigh.

It smells like him, and it’s comforting. It somehow soothes whatever part of her brain is bound to overanalyse, overthink the events of last night, and keeps her in that beautiful head space, that slightly foggy head space where everything is brighter, seems to move quicker. The space where she feels indestructible.

Wandering into the kitchen, she finds him there, sat at the kitchen table but not conducting an experiment or any such thing, but simply sitting, like ‘normal’ humans do. With a newspaper and a cup of coffee, and an Italian aria playing on the radio.

“Kettle’s boiled, if you want to make yourself a cup,” he says casually, nodding in an only slightly more than vague direction towards the worktop. She knows that, with anyone else, she’d be halfway through leaving at such behaviour, already fully convinced that they were never going to work out anyway, and it was always useless to get her hopes up. (It’s partly why she stayed with Tom; their morning after, he had showered her with kisses and affection, had made her feel somewhat special, far more than he could whenever in bed with her.)

With Sherlock, it’s different. It _feels_ different. It isn’t the awkward gesture of a bloke who doesn’t know what to do with a woman now he’s had his fill of her. It’s an accepted fact. Almost… domestic, in its way.

He cocks an eyebrow.

“You don’t – fancy coffee?”

She realises that, in her daydream centred on coffee offers, she’s barely moved from her place by the fridge. She jerks slightly, laughing as she slowly slides towards the worktop, hands smoothing over the marble. “No, no – coffee’s – fine. It really is.”

She puffs out a sigh. _Way to fuck something up Molly._ She squeezes her eyes shut, grabs the kettle. Feeling slightly less indestructible now. All because of coffee. Why she drinks it, she doesn’t really know. It only ever seems to bring her bad luck and awkward social situations.

“Molly?”

She whips around, almost shrieks a little seeing Sherlock now stood in front of her, barely inches from her face. The corners of his mouth crinkle upwards. He reaches up, cupping at her cheeks. Her lips part and her eyes close. He kisses her, his mouth warm on hers, gentle and hesitant and, quite uncharacteristically for the consulting detective, kind. She lets her eyelids flutter open. There it is, that indestructible feeling again. That lighter than air feeling that can only really be described through smiles and laughs and soft embraces, and allows her to say the words she’s been silently hoping to say for years now, words which she always meant to say but somehow got beaten to it by the man in front of her, just last night. She hums briefly, and his smile widens. It’s a little bit intoxicating, knowing that she’s made the only consulting detective in the world this way, open and free and unafraid.

No doubt he’ll clam up around other people, and stiffly inform the others (John, Mary, Mrs Hudson and probably Mycroft, with some pushing) of his, _their_ , change in relationship status, and hurriedly move on to other topics before any of them even have the chance to tease him or ask ‘impertinent’ questions. Or, he could prove her entirely wrong and go swishing into any building containing their—who knew the word ‘their’ could bring such a smile to her face?—friends with a shit-eating grin and boldly brag like no man has ever bragged before. If she’s honest, both scenarios are equally likely to happen.

For now, however, this is hers. That smile, those eyes, that look, that feel of his hands on her skin is hers. It’s hers to remember, hers to think back upon and blush at the most inappropriate moments. They’re hers, just as much as they’re his.

It feels like an eternity since she last spoke, but really, it’s only a few seconds. She holds his waist with her hands, beaming.

“Sherlock Holmes…” She runs her hands up his back, under his arms, over his chest and around his neck. “I love you too.”


End file.
